


to all the burning things

by babytriumphant



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Old Friend tm gays, soul searching but like after you're already dead, the Deep Chicago Lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27278911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babytriumphant/pseuds/babytriumphant
Summary: Landry Violence and Tyreek Olive: faith, death, and the nature of kindling.
Relationships: Tyreek Olive/Landry Violence
Comments: 33
Kudos: 54





	1. ignition

**Author's Note:**

> Some characterization may be slightly off from typical. I am but a humble Firefighters fan who gets emotional about Tyreek Olive and the Hall Stars; I am very sorry in advance. 
> 
> (Tyreek is often characterized as using he/they pronouns; for my own reasons I stuck to they/them pronouns for this fic. If you find any places where I slipped up, please let me know.)
> 
> CWs - discussion of faith with some pseudo-religious overtones.

Landry Violence dies. To say death is the end of the story is doing Hades and its denizens a disservice. This is just a beginning.

* * *

Landry opens his eyes.

“Well, shit,” a familiar voice says, and that’s Tyreek’s hand, clasping his arm and hauling him to his feet. “You look like a dog puked you up, Violence.”

Landry groans, half a second from puking himself. His legs are weak, trembling under him. He lurches forward and Tyreek catches him, their hands steady on his shoulders. He remembers—he remembers Paula Turnip, her fear, the pain of _burning._ How could someone on fire burn?

Violently.

Ha.

“Your team is absolute fucking garbage, kid,” he manages.

“It’s Chicago,” Tyreek says serenely. “Just you wait. We’ll be great someday.”

“Right,” Landry says, all sarcasm, and tries to get his legs under control. Tyreek laughs softly. After a moment Landry pushes himself off Tyreek, determined not to stay like that, with his chin hooked over one of Tyreek’s stupidly broad shoulders. He can feel the pressure of each of Tyreek’s fingers through the thin material of his jersey, strong and wide and—warm.

He looks down, at the fingers splayed across his chest, brown fingers against the dark red fabric.

That’s new. There are not a lot of things that are warm, to a spirit like Landry.

He brushes the thought away and shrugs Tyreek’s hand off. When he looks Tyreek in the eye, they look almost—sad, this little upward curl at the corner of their mouth. They’ve changed, too. The halo behind their head that used to ripple with a lively, crackling fire the color of dying embers has turned into a haunting, wispy blue, and when they sigh, little white sparks trail out of their mouth, like the remnants of a firework.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Tyreek says. Their voice is softer than Landry remembers it being, but it’s been almost two seasons since Landry’s even seen them, longer since they’ve talked. “Thought you’d make it out before they get you.”

Says the firefighter who ran headlong into an inferno. Landry wasn’t there to witness it, but he did hear about it. “Doesn’t matter now,” Landry says. “Never—”

“Never look back, I know.”

“And the only way out is incineration, anyway.” He waits for Tyreek to come back with a pithy quip, but they stay quiet. He clears his throat. “What is this place?” It’s not Hades, is for damn sure.

Tyreek shrugs. Their jacket is missing. Sometimes they would wear it to the plate for their at-bats; sometimes they wouldn’t. They must have been without it, the day they died. Landry can remember, faintly, staring across the field, watching from the stands as the Firefighters played the Pies in the first playoffs: can remember the way Tyreek’s back flexed under their thin white t-shirt. They always were a nasty motherfucker at bat, and a bitch of a third baseman to boot. Landry is, faintly, glad that he’s never had to deal with fielding one of Tyreek’s notorious grounders.

“Not Chicago,” Tyreek says, a note of finality to their voice. The certainty is… reassuring. “She can’t talk to me here.”

 _She?_ Landry looks at them. “Who’s she?”

They look back at him, expression quizzical. “I’m from—”

“Chicago. Yeah. I got that.” That would be a question for later. For now, though, he tries to think back. How many players had been incinerated before Tyreek? Landry’s memories of most of the first season are fuzzy, but he knows nobody _died_ until—Hotdogfingers, from Seattle. And then there had been a Fridays player, and Maldonado—that one had hit a little closer to home.

And then Tyreek Olive, which had been its own special kind of awful: Chicago had cried, and everyone felt it.

Season two had been brutal: shock after shock, devastation after devastation. Seventeen players in total, more than an entire team’s worth. Season three had been worse. Landry knows he wasn’t the only stripe grimly facing the prospect that they might not all make it out. In a strange, distant way, Landry is glad that it’s him.

It’s easier not to look back if there is nothing to look back to.

“How many?” Landry asks quietly, wrenching his gaze away from the little bright points that fall like shooting stars out of Tyreek’s mouth. He scans their surroundings. It’s a vast, empty hall, what might be a roof lost high above in the darkness. Unlike Hades, with its perpetual red and purple haze and the constant glow of burning fires, it is empty and cold and dark. Landry shivers. They are the only things that can shed light, as far as Landry can tell: the glow of his own exposed skin, wreathed in flame, and Tyreek’s burning halo, the mark of a saint.

Tyreek looks around, too, as if counting. Landry would wager a guess that Tyreek knows exactly how many people are here, and how it relates to the safe occupancy limit of wherever they happen to be. “With your sorry ass here? Forty-five.”

“And when you got here…”

“Four.”

Landry swallows. So he’d been right. How lonely must that have been? One of four, in the dark?

They catch his look and punch him on the shoulder. They are, compared to Landry’s human form, shorter, broader, and a hell of a lot stronger; Landry bites his lip to hide the way the punch makes him want to say something he’ll regret. “Don’t mourn me. I’ve been dead a season and a half, it’s not like it’s getting better.”

“I know,” he says, “still.”

Tyreek holds his gaze, steady as ever. Their eyes flicker with fire; their pupils are a bright, blazing white. It’s—comforting. “I know,” they say back.

Landry looks away again, at the vast emptiness. “How come I haven’t seen anyone else?”

“You are the literal personification of wanton destruction,” Tyreek says, a soft humor to their voice. “And you’re on fire. Why do you think you haven’t seen anyone else?” 

* * *

It’s hard to tell what time is, in this place. “Why aren’t you afraid of me, then?” he asks, some time later.

When they laugh, Landry wants to catch the flintstone sparks coming out of their mouth, to cup them in his hands; but they’d just fade into the firey orange wrath of his skin. “Why do you think?” they say, and that’s that.

* * *

They count the days by asking newly incinerated players what day it is, out there on the immaterial plane. Or, more accurately, Tyreek asks and then tells Landry, because everyone knows of Tyreek, even the ones who started playing blaseball after they died. Landry thinks, a little wildly, of Hermes, guide of lost souls to the dead. Landry, on the other hand—nobody is particularly interested in seeing his face.

“No, but seriously, I—I want to know.”

In another life—in life, perhaps—Landry had been… not _confident_ , perhaps, but he knew what he was, and where he was going, and what purpose he served. He was Landry Violence, a wrathful spirit; he was going to die, and rest in Hades; he was going to play blaseball in the meantime. He’d ignored the whispers that there were no blaseball players who ended up in Hades: that Tyreek Olive did not number among their shades. But this is not Hades. No longer is he a wrathful spirit, calling citizens to arms. He is just—extant. He simply _is_.

It’s relieving. It’s terrifying.

“Know what?”

“Why you aren’t afraid.” Landry is sitting; his feet dangle. There is no elevation to this place, but here he is, sitting with his feet dangling over a ledge anyway. It’s deeply unsettling in a way he is determined to ignore. Tyreek sits next to him, so close their sleeves brush. “When everyone else is.”

“Of course I’m afraid,” Tyreek says. “It’s smart, to be afraid. It keeps you alive.”

“But here you are.”

Tyreek shrugs. “Fire is dangerous, powerful, and ought to be respected. Anyone who doesn’t is a fool.” They shrug again. “But I did sign up to fight them, and when it’s between me and Justice Spoon, who’s just learning the ropes? Me, every day, in a heartbeat. More the fool me, I suppose.”

“But you were missed.” _I missed you_ , Landry does not say. They’ve known each other for a long time, since before Tyreek was called Tyreek, when they wore the blindfold of Justice and their eyes did not burn like the coals that smolder at the bottom of a bonfire—or, if they did, then when Landry could not see it. “How can you say that trade-off was worth it?”

Tyreek bumps Landry’s shoulder. “Remind me how you died.” Landry never told them how he died, but he supposes they could’ve asked one of the new deaths what happened. Landry wouldn’t put it past them.

Landry frowns. “That’s not the same. Paula didn’t ask for it. It—wouldn’t have been fair.”

“She put the jacket on,” Tyreek points out. “She played. She answered her own kind of call.”

“She didn’t know the risk.”

“Funny, then. She must have ignored the forty-four players who got their asses incinerated before you.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t know.”

“My _point_ is,” Tyreek says, “we both made our choice, and we’re here now, aren’t we? I thought you were the one who didn’t want to look back, anyway.”

“I know,” Landry says, and his voice comes out a whisper. “I just wish things had been—different.” He turns his hands over on his thighs, looks at them, at the way fire licks around his fingers and up his arms.

Tyreek’s fingers settle against the thin skin of Landry’s wrist like they’re taking Landry’s pulse, like Landry is a burn victim and not the burning, like they’re not both dead, like they still have things like heartbeats and blood that churns through their veins. “Me too,” Tyreek says, voice equally quiet. Their gaze is settled on the place they touch. “For you, at least.”

 _If you were going to end up here anyway,_ Landry thinks, _I don_ _’t think I mind all that much._ He doesn’t say that, though. That’s a dangerous thing to say, and Landry would be a fool if he didn’t pay attention to his fear. Instead, he says, “Yeah,” his throat suddenly dry, and does not pull his hand away.

* * *

He goes for a walk, turning whenever he goddamn well feels like it and just going and going and going. He shouts until his throat goes sore and when he takes in a ragged breath it stops hurting, just like that.

Aside from Tyreek’s occasional visits, Landry does not encounter a single soul, and it is the worst feeling in the world: one stripe, after all, does not a tiger make.

* * *

“Combs Duende got incinerated.”

Landry doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. “Hi, Tyreek,” he says, sarcastically. Space makes no sense here; he’s standing up, but he still looks up at Tyreek, as though he is laying down and Tyreek is standing over him. Landry tilts his head back and reaches a hand up to brush his fingers against their heavy black boots, just to watch the way the fire dancing around his fingers skates over what he knows to be a steel-reinforced toe. “How’s your day been, Tyreek? It’s great to see you, Tyreek.”

Tyreek peers down at him, serenely unaffected by Landry’s sarcasm but seeming baffled nonetheless. “Landry, old friend, I know you know my name.”

Landry sits up. “I’m just saying that you don’t exactly have a wailing fire engine to announce your presence anymore.”

“Hm.” Tyreek kneels, broad hands settling on their knees. Their second and third pairs of eyes blink open for a moment, and then settle closed again. “I’m still not subtle. Maybe you need to pay closer attention.”

“Or you could lead off with a ‘Hey, Landry.’”

Tyreek’s first pair of eyes crinkle up at the corners, but otherwise they don’t react. “Combs Duende got incinerated,” Tyreek repeats, like someone trying to coax a horse to drink. Landry rolls his eyes—he’s already at the water, Tyreek doesn’t need to convince him.

“Okay, yes, Combs Duende. Baltimore?” Tyreek nods. “What day is it?”

“4/63,” Tyreek says. Four days since Carpenter from the Flowers; Landry opens his mouth to say as much, but Tyreek waves it off, places a hand on Landry’s shoulder. Again: that warmth, Tyreek’s hand, the unsurprising strength of it, the way Landry’s focus narrows to their hand against his shirt, and then his mind snaps back into place when they give him a little shake and say: “They were playing against the Tigers.”

“Oh,” Landry says, and then his brain catches up. “ _Oh_ ,” and it surprises him, a little, the way tears spring to his eyes. It is quiet, this deathly place, where Landry’s teammates were unabashedly loud, and filled up whatever space they took in, and he misses them with every fiber in his body. Landry once had seen himself their focal point, of sorts; they had always grown more quiet and serious when Landry walked into the room, eyes tracking him like they were awaiting instruction. He wonders if they miss him like he misses them. He wonders who’s stepped up in his absence. “Did they say anything?” _About me_ , Landry does not say. “About—about the stripes?”

“They said that there’s a new saying going around,” Tyreek says. Their voice goes gentle. “One the Tigers made up. _Rest in Violence?_ ”

Landry doesn’t know what his face does. He doesn’t need to. Tyreek pulls him into a hug; Landry presses his face into their shoulder, breathes in the smell of fire retardant and smoke and detergent and salty skin, and takes comfort in the knowledge that he can’t possibly be the only person who’s cried on Tyreek Olive before.


	2. growth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catcher!Landry, because I said so. I grew up watching Mike Zunino; there's a special place in my heart for catchers who can hit for big money every so often.

Time passes. Or, at least, time passes outside… wherever this is. Landry is there when Morrow Doyle arrives, shivering and wide-eyed, to herald the end of season four; Tyreek offers them a handshake, which goes about as well as one might expect shaking the hand of a constantly-glitching entity to go, and gives them instructions on how to find the other Flowers and Shoe Thieves in this quiet, desolate place. 

He’s still the only stripe here, and Tyreek the only Firefighter. He knows, because he knows Tyreek, that they’re grateful for that. 

He is too.

“Do you visit the others?” Landry says, when their newest arrival has bid the two of them goodbye. Morrow Doyle is not afraid of Landry, but they don’t seem to pay him much mind, either, which certainly isn’t _good_ , but it’s better than Landry had expected. 

“Sometimes,” Tyreek says, contemplative. “Some of them are—I won’t say _happy,_ but content to be here, among their teammates and friends, so I leave them alone, most of the time. Some I can’t reach at all, which is… frustrating.” 

Tyreek says that Landry wouldn’t find himself unwelcome, if he were to try to find the others. He still hasn’t tried, though. It doesn’t feel like the right time, although he’s not sure what the right time is; Tyreek never presses. “Like who?” 

Tyreek sighs through their nose, mouth twisting, expression regretful. “I can’t seem to find Jaylen Hotdogfingers. I wish I could; some of the Garages have been asking after her. Tiana Cash says she’d like to meet Jaylen, seeing as the two of them never met on the immaterial plane.” 

“Hmm,” Landry says noncommittally. 

Together they watch Morrow Doyle walk away, their flickering skin fading with every step, until squinting into the darkness no longer yields any sign of their presence. “Why do you ask?” Tyreek says. 

“No reason.” 

“There’s a reason, isn’t there.” 

It’s not a question. Landry’s mouth quirks up. “Is there anyone you visit as often as you visit me?” 

Tyreek laughs. “Come now, old friend, you know there’s no one like you.” 

Landry will not admit to preening, but he certainly comes close. 

* * *

Here’s the thing. Tyreek may be Hermes, a guiding light and shepherd of the lost dead, but Landry Violence is Landry Violence, and he has spent far too long in the bowels of Hades to not know what it means to be damned. 

So Landry Violence picks a direction and starts walking. 

* * *

He doesn’t need to eat or drink or rest, but it does get tiring, walking in an unchanging landscape of darkness, listening to his own footsteps echo. It gets lonely, too, but sometimes Tyreek joins him, appearing silently at his shoulder like a shadow. Sometimes they walk in silence for long, unending stretches until Tyreek wanders off, presumably to talk to people besides Landry. Sometimes they talk, going back and forth on such inane topics as bat materials (Landry learns Tyreek prefers wood, which Landry tends to set on fire entirely by accident), best stadiums to play in (they both find Gleek Arena impossible), and the merit of ketchup on hot dogs (Tyreek is vehemently anti-ketchup, which is an understandable viewpoint even if Landry doesn’t agree). 

“Do you ever wonder,” Tyreek says, on their tenth visit (not that Landry’s counting), “what it means for us to be here? Rather than… somewhere else?” 

Sometimes, they talk about metaphysics and cosmology. 

“How do you mean?” 

Tyreek shrugs. “Didn’t you think something different would happen when you died?” Their voice is—fragile. Uncertain. 

Landry thinks about Hades, about the faceless shades that clung like cobwebs when he walked through them. About the expectation that everyone would end up there. “I thought I would go to Hades,” Landry says, slowly. “It was just—I don’t know. A fact. That’s what death was.” 

“Would you call it faith?” 

“Faith, I suppose, in the way I have faith that the sun will rise in the morning and set in the evening. So—not really.” 

Tyreek hums thoughtfully, and shoves their hands into the deep pockets of their bunker pants. They look good with suspenders, although Landry’s certain that he’s not the first person to observe that kind of thing. “I see.” 

“What did you think would happen?” 

“Not this,” Tyreek says, and shakes their head. “Sorry, I’m just… thinking.” 

“I see no need for an apology,” Landry says. “What were you expecting?” 

“I’m from Chicago,” Tyreek says, like it’s supposed to be obvious. 

“That still makes no sense to me.” 

“What about it doesn’t make sense?” 

“I mean it doesn’t make sense. You keep saying that like it’s supposed to explain everything, but either I’m missing context or you’re being deliberately obfuscatory.” 

Tyreek makes a frustrated noise. “I’m not being deliberately confusing,” they say. Landry glances at them, sidelong. “I just don’t know how to explain it. I’m _from_ _Chicago_.” 

“Okay?” 

Tyreek looks back at him. “I don’t think you’re getting it.” 

“What is there to get? You’re from Chicago, yeah, we know.” 

Tyreek wrinkles their nose for a moment. “Does everyone really think us so… vapid? I mean. Yes. I am _from,_ in a sort of geographical sense, Chicago. But it’s… more than that. She _created_ us, the Firefighters.” 

“A blaseball team,” Landry says, a little disbelievingly. “That fights fires on the side.” 

“Yes, yes, I know. How fun and quaint. But so too did she create our purpose, our oath: we are the divine mediation, the hand on the scale, the last tally upon the balance between overbearing order and senseless entropy. She spoke to us and gave us direction. We serve her. Not blindly; we have our own judgment and our own faculties, and we are allowed to deviate from her opinions. But we are her product and her creation.” 

“So when you all say ‘We’re from Chicago’—” 

“We’re _from_ Chicago.” 

“And you said you couldn’t hear her.” 

“I can’t.” 

“And that means—” 

“I don’t know,” Tyreek says. “But I do know that all the Firefighters who sacrificed their lives in the Great Chicago Blaseball Fire now rest in the eternal flame that burns in the heart of Chicago, that which they fought during their tenure but now gives them shelter and rest. I know this because I would hear them, sometimes, when Chicago asked me to make a choice, and they would give counsel, and warn me three steps before I ended up in a situation I couldn’t get out of. And it is distressing that I cannot do the same.” 

They walk in silence for a while. 

Landry says, “So we’re… not in Chicago.” 

They snort. “That’s your takeaway?” 

“You guys don’t talk about your divine… whatever that much, I’m getting my head around it.” 

“Well, if you have questions, I suppose I can answer.” 

“Are fires literal or metaphorical?” 

They jostle their elbow against his, winking with two sets of eyes. “Now you’re getting it.” 

Landry can’t help his brief, answering smile. “You’re horrible at answering questions.”

“But you want to ask another, don’t you.” 

He does. “If we’re not in the ‘eternal flame that burns in the heart of Chicago,’ then where are we? Purgatory? Asphodel? Limbo? There are a lot of words for this kind of concept, but I don’t know what you use.” 

“Waiting?” Tyreek says, tone dubious. “For a call that has not yet come?” 

It’s about as firm as quicksand. It’s unlike Tyreek, to be uncertain and unsteady, when they are so often the one offering their hand in the dark. In some ways Landry wishes they did not have to doubt. In a smaller, more selfish way, Landry is glad to be the one being asked to provide support, because Tyreek is his friend, because Tyreek needs it. 

What kind of support, Landry doesn’t quite know. He swallows. “It’ll come,” he says, with a conviction he does not quite feel. “I know it will.” 

The smile that tugs at the corner of their mouth is wobbly. “How do you know?” 

“Because,” Landry says, “I may not have faith in the same way you do. But I have faith in you, and I have faith in your faith. If that is what you believe, I’ll keep listening for it.” 

It is quiet again, for so long Landry starts to think he said the wrong thing somehow, but then Tyreek’s hand finds his, their strong, callused fingers linking with his own. Even though Landry’s heart does not beat, it shudders in his chest, stirring up the butterflies in his stomach. 

“Thank you,” Tyreek says, voice quiet. 

_Anytime_ or _Of course_ or _You’re welcome_ would all suffice, but Landry can’t seem to summon them to his tongue, and hopes that squeezing Tyreek’s hand will suffice in exchange. 

After Tyreek leaves, Landry laces his hands together in front of him, but the pressure is a poor replacement for the warmth of Tyreek’s hand. 

* * *

Sometimes, as he walks, he can hear voices: here the Flowers, there the Steaks, Moist Talkers and Fridays and Magic. He turns away from them, every time. By now, he knows, they must know what he did, and how he was not, in the moment of his death, what he was capable of in life. He suspects he knows what Tyreek is up to, when he wanders off to go speak with the others. 

He still doesn’t want to talk to them. Maybe, when he was alive, he could handle all the stripes looking to him for guidance, but the idea of more than one person looking at him makes his skin crawl with something approaching trepidation. He is no guiding light, not in this dark place where his fire flickers. 

He keeps walking. 

* * *

By the time Landry finally stumbles across Jaylen Hotdogfingers, Tyreek hasn’t come to update him with the date in a while. It would be more of an event, Landry thinks, if she noticed he was there, but she doesn’t seem to; instead, she seems otherwise occupied, pitching her wicked fastball into the darkness. 

“Hey, Hotdogfingers,” he says, but she doesn’t respond, so he simply watches her for a while. She’s wearing a blaseball uniform, but not Garages navy; it’s closer to Talkers blue, but still too light, a little like one of the Shoe Thieves’ retro alternates, pinstriped with white, white pants to match. It’s a familiar shade, but it’s not a team color. Her nameplate seems to shift as Landry stares at it, until he can’t be certain whether it says JAYLEN or HOTDOGFINGERS or something else entirely. 

“Jaylen,” he tries again. Still nothing. She winds up and lasers a fastball across a home plate that doesn’t exist; Landry watches it as it disappears. Another ball appears in her hand, glistening white. Windup, lunge, release. Windup, lunge— 

Landry’s watched a lot of pitchers in his day; it is, after all, the point of a catcher, to be the final piece of the pitcher’s puzzle. There’s something deadly in the economy of Jaylen’s mechanics, in the efficiency of her stride, the way she releases the ball. The look in her eye is blank and unseeing, made harder to decipher by the way her cap is pulled down low. 

“Do you wonder,” Landry asks her, “why we’re here?” 

No response. 

“My friend was wondering,” he says. “I was wondering too. It’s horrible, you know, to have the rug suddenly pulled out from under your feet.” 

He pauses. Windup, lunge, release— 

“But I suppose you’d know about that, wouldn’t you.” 

Windup, lunge, release. 

“Alright, then,” Landry says. “I’ll leave you to it.” 

* * *

It doesn’t seem fair, that Landry gets to walk and talk and do things other than throw baseballs into thin air over and over again. 

But Jaylen Hotdogfingers burned without any knowledge that there would be others who burned after her. Perhaps it had been a kindness, in its own way, in its own time. 

* * *

“How do you keep finding me?” Landry asks, the next time Tyreek appears.

Tyreek smiles at him, inscrutable. “I always know where the fire is,” they say.

Landry doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but maybe that’s all there is to it. He doesn’t press. “What’s up?”

“Not incinerations, they’re down,” Tyreek says, which is a horrible joke Landry refuses to acknowledge. “Way down. It’s 5/91.”

There’d been a Magic player who’d gotten incinerated around day 40. Landry’d been surprised at how late it’d been, for the first incineration of the season, and for the second to be this late… “Who was it?”

“Internet. From the Sunbeams.”

“Well shit,” Landry says. “I know Ren was supposed to go on a date with them at some point.”

“Really? Huh. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, they were both tight-lipped about it.” It had been cute, even if it had made Landry a little maudlin about his own lack of romantic pursuits. “Who won the season four Series?” Getting information out of the Magic player had been difficult, Tyreek had said. Something about colonies of thermophilic bacteria floating in swarms of extremely hot water not being able to form proper vocal cords.

“Tigers,” Tyreek says, mouth puckering at Landry’s answering grin. “Again.”

“Don’t be sour.”

“I’m not sour,” Tyreek says, in the long-suffering air of someone who is most definitely sour. “Our time will come.”

“Uh huh,” Landry says indulgently, and although he knows the punch to the shoulder is coming, he doesn’t brace for it in time.

* * *

He goes back to Jaylen Hotdogfingers once, twice, three times. It’s always the same: Jaylen Hotdogfingers, wearing blue, pitching into the dark. Landry chases the balls, sometimes, runs as fast as he can after them, just to see where they go, and it’s always the same: they catch fire and burn, until there’s nothing left but the tiniest scrap of ash. 

“I think I’ve figured out what your uniform reminded me of. Tyreek’s halo is the same color,” Landry says, watching her pitch at nothing. He’s not in the mood to chase balls, right now. “It’s a very nice blue.” It wasn’t really Landry’s color; being on fire lent oneself to a specific color palette, tending towards the maroons and the oranges of the Tigers. 

No response. 

“I haven’t played in a while,” he says. “I’m kind of jealous of you, you know. Getting to pitch forever. Not because I don’t want to, you know, hang out with all the other dead people; Tyreek’s pretty cool.” 

Pretty cool wasn’t quite the descriptor Landry meant, but it served well enough. He hadn’t known Jaylen much when they were both alive, but he knows enough about the collective Garages attitude to guess at her response: _Pretty cool, huh,_ all sarcasm. 

“We can’t all be poets,” he murmurs. “Some of us just play blaseball.” 

As much as blaseball changed, day to day and season to season, there had been something reassuring about the rigidity of it, the sameness: wake up, play ball, rest on the gods’ day, wait for the elections to change everything, rinse and repeat. He could have faith in that, and in the people who played it. 

Landry had been the catcher on the Tigers, not because he was built for it but because he knew what it _meant_ , to be the focal point of the defense, to be the one everyone looked to. That had been natural, like slipping on a second skin, like wrapping himself around a host and _knowing_ , just knowing, what he was expected to do. The thought of it now makes him nervous, uneasy. He doesn’t know if he wants to be that person again, and even if he wanted to, he doesn’t know if he can be. 

But Landry had held Tyreek’s hand, and they had believed in his faith even when they could not believe in their own, and that—that could almost be enough. 

“Alright,” he says, and crouches behind where home plate would be. “Do your worst, Jaylen Hotdogfingers.” 

Windup. 

Lunge. 

Release. 

When Landry’s hand flashes up to catch it, there’s a mitt on his hand, pitch black with bright blue webbing, and a catcher’s mask on his face, and pads on his chest and knees. The ball does not catch fire, and it does not burn. 

On a pitcher’s mound that had not been there moments ago, Jaylen Hotdogfingers smiles. 

“Landry Violence,” she says. “Care to play ball?” 


	3. fully developed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might actually be chapter 3/5+, we'll see.

He does, in fact, care to play ball.

“Gimme everything you’ve got,” Landry says, “and we’ll figure it out from there.”

“You asked for it,” Jaylen Hotdogfingers says, and winds up for the pitch.

* * *

“Nice threads,” Tyreek says, one eyebrow raised. All six of their eyes peer at Landry, giving him a thorough glance-over. Once, between games, the stripes had watched a documentary about bugs, and the fractal-like way they saw things, how the faceted lenses of their eyes all gave different information that compounded into an image someone with only two eyes couldn’t comprehend. Landry wonders what it must be like, to have three different perspectives on the world, to have to condense that into a single understanding. He wonders what Tyreek sees when they look at him. He wonders if there’s a reason why Tyreek keeps four eyes closed most of the time: if it’s easier, that way.

“Thanks,” Landry says, looking down at his uniform. There’s an illegible white smudge where the wordmark should be. The black compression sleeves under his pads have blue highlights that spiral down his arms; it’s a strange departure from the Tigers pinstripe. “I don’t know where I got them.”

“Hm,” Tyreek says. “Gotta say, blue isn’t really your color.”

“No,” Landry agrees. “Matches your halo, though.” He pauses. “Maybe you should play with us.”

“Us?”

Right. “I found Jaylen Hotdogfingers.”

“You did?”

“I did.” Landry tugs at the strap of his chest protector. It comes off like peeling the backing away from a sticker and dissolves into faint specks of blue light that wink out, one by one. Landry blinks down at himself and he’s wearing his normal charcoal-colored suit vest and white dress shirt, a plum-colored suit jacket draped over his arm that matches the color of his slacks, shiny black dress shoes. The Tigers uniform he’d been wearing when he’d been incinerated hadn’t come back. He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not. “We talked.”

Tyreek raises an eyebrow. 

“More blaseball than talking, really.”

“What’s the verdict?”

Landry shakes out his arm. There’s a little bit of numbness that travels up from the heel of his palm to the delicate parts of his shoulder, and no matter how many times he tries to stretch, there’s an ache in his elbow that doesn’t go away. “I don’t know,” he says, slowly. “She’s a damn good pitcher.”

“I sense a _but_ there, Violence.”

Landry chews on his lip. “There’s something off.”

There was just—something critically _different_ about Jaylen, something that she hadn’t had in life. Landry couldn’t put his finger on it, had no idea whether it was bad or good, but whatever it was made his skin crawl. A certain look in her eye, maybe, or the way her head cocked when Landry gave her a signal, like she was contemplating whether or not to pay his suggestions any mind. Maybe it was the way that, aside the fastballs that hit Landry’s glove so hard it made his teeth rattle in their sockets, all her pitches had a nasty curve to them, ending up somewhere over batters’ boxes that weren’t there.

Tyreek’s brows furrow. “That’s ominous.”

Landry’s reluctant to agree, but. Well. There’s only so much he can say. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Maybe you should come check it out, next time.”

Tyreek studies him, a level look that Landry returns with one of his own. Whatever Tyreek sees in Landry’s face makes them nod and say, “Yeah. Maybe I will.”

* * *

They go visit Jaylen Hotdogfingers together. It’s almost like Landry had never interacted with her at all: she’s back to performing her blank-faced, automatic pitch in the dark, putting it in the exact same place, every single time, mechanical, unfeeling. Landry shoves his hands into his new suit pants pockets to keep himself from fidgeting, unwilling to admit how unnerved he is.

“Was she already doing this?” Tyreek asks. They walk up next to her. Something in Landry’s chest, small and panicked, wants to tell them that it’s not a good idea, that Jaylen is _dangerous_ , but he can’t explain why and the words die, hovering on the tip of his tongue.

Jaylen doesn’t react to Tyreek’s presence, just winds up for the pitch again.

Landry clears his throat; the panic dislodges but doesn’t go away. “Yeah,” he says. “I don’t know why.”

“She was the first incinerated,” Tyreek says, a gentleness to their voice. Landry only recognizes it because they’d used the same tone with him: _You look like a dog puked you up, Violence._ The small panicked thing in Landry’s chest panics anew for an entirely different reason that Landry does not want to think about. “I looked for her, too, but I couldn’t find her.”

“Maybe it was different,” Landry says. “For her, I mean.”

Tyreek sways backward, avoiding Jaylen’s arm as it whips around. Together they watch the ball fade into the darkness. “But why were you able to find her?”

Landry’s first instinct is to say _I don_ _’t know_. It’s the easy answer, not knowing, but he’s spent far too long wandering this place to have no other answers, and Landry Violence has stared death in the face for far too long to avoid knowing. “She died because someone else made a decision,” he says. “She didn’t choose to open the Book, but the end of her life was the consequence. There are a lot of souls who end up like that, you know. Not dead because of something they did, but because of something someone else did. Action or inaction, the end result is the same.” He shrugs. “She died. I know how that goes.”

Tyreek turns just enough so Landry can see the confused crinkle at the corner of their mouth, the slight furrow to their brow. “But you sacrificed yourself for Paula Turnip. That’s not the same.”

“It is and it isn’t,” Landry says. “The umpire was going to incinerate someone. I chose who. I didn’t choose the consequence.”

Jaylen whistles three more fastballs into the darkness before Tyreek says, “I never thought of it like that.” 

“That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

“I don’t know if I want to,” Tyreek admits, and then says, “I don’t know if I can play right now either.”

It’s a good thing they’re facing away—Landry doesn’t think he can hide the disappointment that washes over him like a wave. They’d never had the chance to play together just for the hell of it, and despite the circumstances Landry had been looking forward to it. But: “That’s okay,” he repeats, because it isn’t about him right now. “You don’t have to.”

Two quick steps and Tyreek is hugging Landry, their arms tight around his waist; the force of it nearly knocks Landry on his ass, and he barely catches himself in time. Landry lets his hands settle on the broad expanse of their shoulders, lets himself close his eyes and hold on tight. The fabric of their shirt is soft and thin and does not burn when Landry touches it. Fireproof: like Landry couldn’t hurt Tyreek Olive just by virtue of his own existence.

Landry holds on tighter.

* * *

Landry steps up to the catcher’s box, adjusting the strap of his black-and-blue mitt. Tyreek watches, arms crossed and hands gripping their elbows, from somewhere around where third base should be. Jaylen Hotdogfingers pushes the brim of her hat up.

“You left,” she says, in a voice like a clarion bell, two inches short of accusatory. “Why did you leave?”

Landry shoves his mask up on his head. “What, we’re not allowed to take breaks?”

“The Book said so.”

“The Book also said we get Election Day off.”

“It’s not Election Day,” Jaylen says, with a freezing sort of certainty that curls in Landry’s gut. Landry glances over to Tyreek, who glances at Jaylen, then looks back at Landry with an expression hovering somewhere between curiosity and awe. “Not yet. We need to get ready.”

“For what?” Landry asks.

Jaylen opens her mouth. A high-pitched whine builds, folding over itself, louder and louder until the space around them _vibrates_ with it, until Landry can feel it straight down to his bones, can feel it in the empty space in his chest where he’s not breathing. A voice—a thousand different voices consolidated into a single speaking entity—cuts through the ringing haze like a knife, spearing into his mind: “ **playing favorites.** ”

The feedback fades. Landry opens his eyes to find himself braced on his hands and knees, crumpled and prostrate. He sits up, touches his ears—they’re not bleeding, but they feel like they ought to be—and, with what feels like a Herculean effort, pushes himself to standing. Tyreek, from third base, is staring with an expression Landry can’t quite decipher.

He forces his lungs to inflate, with a feeling like a thousand tiny blades digging into his chest wall. He meets Jaylen’s gaze, which now wears a mask of confused indifference.

“What does that mean?” he asks, each word tearing out of his throat and making his head pound.

“What does what mean?” Jaylen says, and holds out a hand. A blaseball materializes in it. For a split-second Landry could swear it flickers with the white-blue flame of an umpire’s stare, but then Jaylen tucks the ball behind her mitt, and when it reemerges the fire is gone. “Are you ready?”

“I don’t think so,” Landry says, but lowers himself into ready position anyway.

* * *

After, Tyreek says, “I think I get what you were saying.”

Landry touches his ears again, not certain whether they’re still ringing or not. “No shit?”

“No shit,” Tyreek agrees. They put a hand on Landry’s shoulder, gentle. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Landry says. He hesitates, and then settles a hand on top of Tyreek’s. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Tyreek says, and smiles.

* * *

The first death of season six is Forrest Bookbaby, and he comes bearing news.

“Idolatry,” Tyreek repeats, sounding dumbfounded. Forrest walks off to find the other Pies and Shoe Thieves, entirely too steady on enormous platform heels that make Landry’s ankles hurt just looking at them. “A board, where you can see who idolizes whom.”

Landry shoves his hands into his pockets. “If we’d lived,” he says, “do you think we’d be on it?”

Tyreek eyes him, then shrugs. “You? Probably. Me? Who knows.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s season six? I’ve been dead for three and a half seasons. I’m not Jaylen Hotdogfingers. Who’s to say people remember me?”

Landry nudges Tyreek’s shoulder. “That’s not what I’m asking,” he says.

Tyreek nudges him back. “And I’m saying it’s impossible to know.”

Landry studies his friend for a moment. Tyreek looks tired. “What’s with you?”

“I don’t know,” Tyreek says, and then reconsiders. “I—the Firefighters won the series. Without me. I never thought…”

“…Never thought they’d win?” Landry says. “What a bleak outlook on your own team.”

Tyreek punches him in the shoulder. Landry rubs at it, feigning injury. “I mean, kind of,” they say. “It’s Chicago. We’re not exactly known for our quick rebuilds, and after what you said about season three, I don’t know. I guess it just—it’s strange, knowing you didn’t make as much of an impact as you thought you did.”

“You mattered,” Landry says.

“Sure,” Tyreek says. “Hardly anyone who comes through knows my name anymore. My team won the championships entirely without me. I have no legacy. No _rest in Violence._ The fuck did _I_ leave behind, huh? A fucking jacket? How is that in any way comparable?”

“The Tigers won season four,” Landry says, which is absolutely no sort of help, but they’re the only words he can come up with. “I know it’s not the same. But. I promise there are people who remember you.”

“Yeah?” Tyreek’s smile is sad. “And how do you know?”

“Because I have faith in you,” Landry says. “And I know I can’t be alone in that.”

* * *

They go back to visit Jaylen Hotdogfingers again.

Landry settles in the catcher’s box. Jaylen pushes the brim of her hat up. It feels like a routine, now, in the best way: the rhythm of blaseball, the feel of the sandy clay under his cleats, even if it is as black as the rest of this place. They throw a few balls back and forth, warming up, even though neither of them really need it.

A flash of blue light catches Landry’s attention and he barely manages to get his glove up in time to catch Jaylen’s underhanded lob. “You’re playing?”

Tyreek adjusts their helmet. The bat they’re holding is sleek, almost fluid-looking, and when they give it an experimental swing it whistles like a bird. “Yeah,” they say. “Can’t hurt to get some practice in, can it?”

“No,” Landry says, and throws the ball back to Jaylen. She catches it and doesn’t throw it back, watching Tyreek curiously. “No, it can’t.”

“Hello, Tyreek,” Jaylen says. “Long time, no see.”

Tyreek steps into the batter’s box. Landry holds his glove up. Usually the batter is a non-factor; usually Landry is paying more attention to his pitcher than whoever’s standing in the boxes, but this time he’s acutely aware of the slight shifts of Tyreek’s weight as they settle, the slight blue cast to everything with their halo so close, offsetting the fire curling off Landry’s skin.

“Are you ready?” Jaylen asks.

Neither of them answer.

Jaylen winds up. Lunges. Releases.

Tyreek Olive swings.

_Crack._

It’s clearer and crisper and louder than Landry’s ever heard it. He shoves his mask up and stands, watching the ball sail off, high into the bleak gloom, a white blur in the dark that turns into a white streak that turns into a falling star, plummeting somewhere they can’t see. Tyreek’s bat hits the dirt. Jaylen turns to watch, shoulders relaxed and eyes bright. Landry wonders if the players on the immaterial plane know that they’re playing, here, whether home runs in death turn into the shooting stars players wish upon in life.

“Nice one,” Landry says, when the ball is well and truly gone. “You wanna run the bases?”

Tyreek taps home plate with their foot. “Nah, I’m good,” they say. “Good to know I could, though.”

“You still got it,” Landry says. “Never once doubted you.”

All six of their eyes peer at Landry for a long, long time.

“I know,” they say simply. “I know you didn’t.”

* * *

They play for a long time. Landry counts the balls and strikes, the home runs, the base hits. They have no fielders, no basemen, no pinch hitters: it’s just Jaylen to Landry with Tyreek swinging at the path between them.

Sometime during their game, Caligula Lotus dies. Landry knows this because she appears at where first base should be, gasping and trembling; Tyreek immediately drops their bat and sprints to first, offering her gentle hands and help standing.

“You didn’t get a base hit,” Jaylen calls after them. “That’s cheating.”

Landry gives Jaylen a look. She blinks back at him.

“What?” she says.

Landry doesn’t step away from the catcher’s box, just watches. Caligula Lotus is crying; Tyreek offers her a hug, and even though she was called up a season after they died, she takes it.

“What are you looking at?” Jaylen demands.

“Is that—is that Jaylen Hotdogfingers?” Landry hears Caligula ask as she pulls away, fingers smoothing over the petals of her face.

“Yeah,” Tyreek says as they let her go. “Why do you ask?”

Caligula pauses for a moment before responding. “Because they want to bring her back,” she says. “The Moist Talkers and Magic and Garages. They’re trying to bring her back to life.”


	4. burnout

“Timeout,” Landry tells Jaylen. “I’ll be back later.”

“You better be,” Jaylen says, and adjusts her hat back down when Landry steps away.

* * *

Caligula explains what Bookbaby hadn’t: that there’s a blessing to steal the fourteenth player on the idols list, and that someone had figured out how to get someone who’d been incinerated onto the board. That because Jaylen had been the first in, because she had been an accident, because she had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, there was a campaign to bring her home. It’s understandable, even if there is a small, ugly part of Landry that asks _why not him? Why not Tyreek?_

He knows why. It doesn’t stop him from hoping, just a little.

Tyreek looks at Landry. Landry looks back at them, then at Jaylen, who has resumed pitching again, seemingly unaware of the weight of Caligula’s words. “Something like that has to have consequences,” he says.

Caligula’s hands twist. “I really am dead, aren’t I?” she asks. Her voice is small. “You’re—you’re Landry Violence. I—I got called up in season three, just before you…” _Got incinerated,_ Landry fills in mentally, when Caligula doesn’t seem to want to. “And you’re…”

“Tyreek Olive,” Tyreek says, a rueful twist to their mouth. “I was a Firefighter. Before your time.”

“Oh,” she says, softly.

“If it’s any consolation,” Landry says, half-sarcastic, “at least it seems like this isn’t permanent, since they’re planning to get Jaylen back and all.”

“Landry,” Tyreek warns, giving Landry an irritated look. 

“It’s fine,” Caligula says. “Actually it’s—comforting, I think. I, ah. Have a girlfriend. Had? I don’t know.” She twists her hands again. “If you two and Jaylen are here… there must be other Flowers, right?”

“Yeah,” Tyreek says. “I’ll show you to them. Before we do, though… should we tell the others that they’re looking for Jaylen?”

“You tell me,” Landry says. “You know them all better than I do.”

Tyreek’s mouth thins—with annoyance or disapproval Landry can’t quite tell, but they run a hand over their mouth and the expression is gone. “You would know them too, if you visited them with me. Caligula, would you mind keeping it quiet, at least for now? I don’t know how everyone will react, and Jaylen is—working through something.”

A dozen unblinking eyes stare at Tyreek, and then Caligula’s petaled head dips in a nod. “I can do that,” she says. “Are you going to tell Jaylen, though?”

Tyreek and Landry share a look. “I think she already knows,” Landry says.

Tyreek bites their lip, and then says, “I’ll show you how to find the Flowers.”

“Thank you,” Caligula says. “Both of you.”

Landry says, “Tell—” His throat closes, and he coughs slightly. “Tell the Flowers I said hi, okay?”

Caligula nods again. “I will.” 

Tyreek offers her their arm, and then they’re both gone.

* * *

Tyreek comes back without Caligula Lotus. Landry hasn’t stepped back into the catcher’s box, and when Tyreek sidles up next to him, Landry says, “So is this it?”

“Is what it?”

“The—” Landry adjusts his hand in his glove, trying to find the right words. “The call you were mentioning. Bringing Jaylen back. Is that how this works? Do we just get—yanked back into the world of the living?”

Tyreek frowns. “Seems kind of… ignoble, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Landry knows well enough the story of Eurydice: how there are so easily things that can go wrong with resurrection, how the act of necromancy is never so honorable as one might think. “So…” 

“I don’t think this is it,” Tyreek says. “It’s not right.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Landry looks over to see Tyreek’s eyes on him already, and yanks the strap of his glove a little too tight. “Oh. Yeah, Hades has… certain ideas about necromancy. The whole Eurydice thing was a mess, and we kept getting people wandering into Hades thinking they’re Orpheus. Sometimes I got asked to deal with them so the big guy didn’t have to.”

“Sounds fun,” Tyreek says, tone drier than a desert.

“So much fun,” Landry says, not meaning it at all.

Tyreek snorts and shakes their head, and then says, “I thought your whole deal was based on the Orpheus thing.”

“What? Oh. _Never look back,_ yeah. It’s more of a—warning, really, than advice on successfully achieving necromancy. Don’t look back. Don’t regret the choices you made. Keep moving. That kind of thing.”

“Well, I suppose that’s how we know the Tigers aren’t in on this whole—scheme.”

“Because getting Jaylen back is based on the fact that they regret getting her killed in the first place? Yeah. No stripe would be caught dead getting mixed up in that.”

Tyreek hums in something that might be agreement. “Do you regret choosing to sacrifice yourself in Paula Turnip’s place?”

“No,” Landry says. It must not sound honest coming out of his mouth, because Tyreek elbows him. He doesn’t know if he totally believes it, either, but he believes it enough to say it, so he gently jostles Tyreek back. “Not really. But I can grieve everything I’m missing, I can wish things were different, without regretting making that choice. If I had to do it again—” He hesitates. “If I had to do it all over again, I would.”

“But you wish you hadn’t been put in that position in the first place?”

That’s it. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Tyreek says. “Me too.”

* * *

They keep playing, because what else is there to do?

Landry keeps a careful count of the strikes and balls, even now practicing his framing, trying to remember the feel of an umpire hovering over his shoulder—the feel of their bloated, senseless rage, utterly purposeless in a way Landry had never quite been—trying to remember what kind of things he could get away with if he was bold enough. He remembers the way Paula Turnip’s hand shook as he nudged it just barely down into the strike zone. Remembers the way the umpire had seethed as it had called the strike; the tidal wave of the fans’ anger, sudden and unpredictable, as the umpire had absorbed it all; and the sudden bolt of Paula’s terror, and then the burning.

It’s only because he’s keeping track that he notices Jaylen’s pitches slowly growing more erratic, in a way that reminds Landry of the slow deterioration of a pitcher’s arm as they get tired, when it’s eighteen innings in and no shame on the horizon. 

First it’s a sinker that hits the dirt way too fast, forcing Landry to scramble. Then it’s a weird slurvy thing that cuts a little too close to Tyreek, and they don’t flinch but they do suck in a breath when the ball hits Landry’s glove. There’s a ball that goes way too high for Landry to even try to frame nicely, and one that ends up way outside the opposite box. 

No matter how many times Landry tries to call time-out so he can talk to Jaylen to tell her to take a load off if she can, she shakes her head with an absent look in her eye. 

Tyreek steps out of the batter’s box when Landry calls a third strike and gives their bat a few experimental swings. “You seeing what I’m seeing?” they ask, out of the side of their mouth. 

Jaylen turns the ball in her glove, seeming lost in thought; her eyes are fixed somewhere over Landry’s shoulder, staring off into the gloom.

“At least some of it,” Landry grumbles, shifting his weight from side to side so he can stretch out his legs. It’s a lot more unpleasant, doing it with his own legs rather than borrowing someone else’s, but it’s more fluid—the half-heartbeat hesitation between his thought and his host’s action is gone. He thinks he could get used to this, but he’s not certain if he likes it. “You good to keep going?”

“Yeah.” Tyreek racks their bat on one shoulder and stretches. Landry decidedly does not watch the way their jersey pulls as they twist from side to side.

“Just to be clear,” Landry says, keeping his voice low, “I’m pretty sure Jaylen is about to stop listening to me, and her pitches are getting—”

“Wild? Roger that,” Tyreek says, “but I’m not one to let a challenge go unmet.”

“You’re insane, old friend,” Landry says, because he knows how to pick his battles, and this is one he’d walk away from in a heartbeat.

The smile that Tyreek turns on him is soft and sad and so, so fond, and Landry cannot—does not want to—look away. “Not insane,” they correct, as they step into the batter’s box. “A Firefighter. And a Firefighter never backs down from a fight.”

Landry smiles back, just as sad, because what else is there to do? “Yeah,” he says. “I remember.”

The tip of Tyreek’s bat taps home plate, and then swings up again, at the ready, and Tyreek isn’t looking at him anymore. Landry gives Jaylen a signal, fingers pressed along the inseam of his pants. He thinks he sees her head dip ever-so-slightly, but he can’t be certain.

Jaylen’s pitch comes out like a fastball.

It comes out like a fastball, is the thing; it comes out like a fastball—but Landry is so focused on the way it hovers like a knuckleball Jaylen’s never pitched before that he barely catches the way it cuts in toward Tyreek’s torso, like a missile seeking its target. 

Tyreek brings their bat around faster than Landry can track, tight to their body. The bat sings a single, clear note, impacts the ball, and shatters. 

Landry jerks back, covering his eyes. 

When he looks up again, Tyreek’s hands are holding just a handle, the wood-chipped bits of the barrel glowing faintly and scattered over the not-ground, like so much stardust.

“Shit,” Landry breathes.

Tyreek doesn’t look surprised, just annoyed. “Yeah,” they say grimly, “shit.”

Landry blinks and the handle is a whole bat again, gleaming blue. “You still in?”

“Yep,” Tyreek says, and Landry barely gets set again before Jaylen is winding up.

Landry learns three things, in the time that follows.

The first is that nobody was kidding when they said Tyreek was an absolute motherfucker at bat, when they wanted to be.

The second is the way Tyreek shifts their weight, all intent and focus, when they’ve committed to swinging. Tyreek fouls off pitch after pitch after pitch, refusing to let Landry’s mental count get any higher than 0-2 even as the pitch count ticks steadily upward. 

It becomes part of the rhythm: the fabric of Landry’s blue uniform under his fingers as he tries to call a pitch; Jaylen’s foot hitting the mound as she ignores him and lunges forward, a restive rage in her eyes that is both foreign and so, so familiar; the way Tyreek tenses before they swing, and the determination that Landry can feel crackling off them, almost audible; the sound of the ball as it pings off their bat. 

Tyreek breaks their bat six times. By the third time Landry doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t bother chasing the fouls, either. An untouched, bright white ball always ends up in Jaylen’s hand, anyway, so there’s no point.

The third is this:

Nobody wants anyone to foul forever. At some point someone gets impatient, sloppy; at some point there’s going to be a pitch that no batter can help swinging at, or a bad pitch no hitter can help throwing. It’s Jaylen who messes up first this time, putting a ball straight over the plate, and even the last-second wobble doesn’t stop Tyreek from shifting their weight and swinging hard enough that the _crack_ of the home run rattles in Landry’s jaw. The ball streaks across the void and disappears again, and this time Tyreek watches it fly but Jaylen does not.

It is during this half-moment of Tyreek’s distraction that Landry notices the way Jaylen’s eyes grow red and furious, face furrowing into an expression that does not belong on her face.

Three thoughts occur to Landry. The first is that he recognizes that look from the photos of him at bat, the same photos fans would ask him to sign, from the mirror when he woke up angry and didn’t know why. The second is that the red glint is a familiar warning—the last time Landry had seen it, he had been shouting in the face of the umpire that had killed him. The third is that he has no idea how to say either of these things out loud.

The thing he ends up with in its place: “ _Tyreek._ ”

“Hmm?” Their bat is loose in their hand, eyes focused on a point in the distance.

Landry reaches up to shove them out of the way, even though he’s half-convinced it won’t matter, even though he’s half-convinced it’ll hit him instead. “Jaylen!”

Tyreek reacts with a speed and strength that isn’t surprising only because Landry knows them and knows the things they did in life: Tyreek drops their bat, shoves him to his knees, and braces his head and neck against their chest. It’s like that, on his knees being shielded by Tyreek Olive’s body, that he feels the hit—feels the shudder that runs through them, this trembling vibration that doesn’t _stop_ —and feels, more than hears, Tyreek’s bitten-off grunt of pain.

Landry blindly reaches up and wraps his arms around Tyreek, holding them just as tightly as they had been holding him. Their hands are twitching, slightly, as they grip onto the straps of Landry’s chest protector, and Landry slowly takes more and more of their weight as they slump against him. There’s a moment where Landry panics—Tyreek’s not breathing—before he remembers neither of them need to breathe, anymore.

“So that’s what’s wrong,” Tyreek mumbles, as they let themself collapse fully against him. “That. That’s not what getting hit by a pitch is supposed to feel like, I think.”

Landry frees his face so he can prop his chin on Tyreek’s shoulder. “You wanna stop playing?” He spots Jaylen’s face: she wears a polite mask of surprise, like she’s not sure what’s going on but understands enough to know it was bad and shouldn’t have happened.

Tyreek’s laugh comes out in a wheeze. “Abso-fucking-lutely,” they say.

Landry gathers his legs underneath him. Tyreek understands enough about the mechanics of moving bodies around that they shift without prompting, adjusting so when Landry stands up he takes them with him, and together, they limp into the darkness.

* * *

Landry doesn’t know how long they walk, but when he thinks to look over his shoulder, Jaylen and her pitching mound have disappeared into the gloom. Neither of them are wearing blaseball uniforms anymore—Landry back in his suit, Tyreek back in a t-shirt and bunker pants. Somehow, Landry doesn’t quite feel safe, but he gets the feeling that he’ll never feel safe, no matter how far he walks.

“This is as good a place as any,” he tells Tyreek.

Their slide down to sitting is ungainly; Tyreek’s movements are slow and uncoordinated, and they end up half-sprawled over Landry, muttering curses under their breath when their fingers don’t work quite how they were expecting.

“So,” Landry says.

“So,” Tyreek parrots, half-muffled in Landry’s thigh, and shifts a little to get comfortable; Landry winces as their elbow digs into his thigh for a moment but doesn’t say anything. “That sucked.”

“What’s it like?”

“Mm.” Tyreek takes a moment to think, and then starts listing things like an EMT rattling off vitals: “Lack of coordination. Muscle weakness. Double vision. Sudden pins and needles even though nobody here has a pulse and a general feeling like I’ve been drop-kicked into a dimension that doesn’t exist.”

“That sounds super fun,” Landry says.

“I think I’m not gonna move for a while.”

“Solid plan.”

Landry doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Eventually he settles one on Tyreek’s shoulder, where he thinks Jaylen hit them, keeping his touch gentle. He’s waffling on where to put his other hand when they hold one of their own hands up; it’s convenient enough, he supposes, and takes it.

Tyreek shakes for a long, long time.

* * *

“You ever seen a hit by pitch before, Violence?” Tyreek’s head is still in Landry’s lap. He doesn’t mind, really.

Landry hums as he thinks about it, tracing the shape of a star on Tyreek’s shoulder blade. “Nope.” He’s sure one’s happened, but he’s never seen one, nor heard of it; even the low-stars have enough control over their pitches to put the ball in mostly the right places.

“You think that happens every time a pitcher hits someone?”

“Hope not.”

“You think we should test that?”

“No,” Landry says, “absolutely not.”

* * *

They test it.

* * *

Randall Marijuana dies. He passes through their blaseball game with a haunted expression on his face but still greets Landry by name and calls him a ‘total legend’. Mickey Woods is hot on his heels, and says nothing of the sort, but looks at Landry with an expression of awe and fear, which he doesn’t think he deserves. Through both interactions, Tyreek pretends like they’re not leaning all their weight into Landry and goes almost entirely ignored except for Randy’s genial “Hey man.”

Tyreek has gotten hit by one of Jaylen’s wild pitches three more times. Each time it takes them a little longer to recover, and even after they say they’re good to go Landry gets the sense that they’re hiding how much it really hurts. But every time they come back to the plate Jaylen gets more and more demanding in a way Landry doesn’t totally know how to handle, and Landry suspects—well.

“Bleeding heart,” Landry mutters, when Tyreek refuses to step away after getting hit a fourth time—fifth total, now.

“It’s not like I’m going to die,” Tyreek snipes back.

Landry opens his mouth to retort when he hears it.

Jaylen must hear it, too, because her head snaps up like a hunting dog at a gunshot, eyes wide.

It’s a lone voice, distorted and hard to hear, and they’re singing: “ _…it’s a journey I might not return from… I’m Mike Townsend and I know what to do—_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics from The Garages' 'Mike Townsend (Knows What He's Gotta Do)' and a quote from Mads' in-progress WAFC anthem ("a Firefighter never runs away from a fight").


	5. light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really did think I was only going to write four chapters. But apparently not, so.

Landry remembers Mike Townsend. The Tigers had only ever played three games against him, and in those three games they’d won three times, because Mike Townsend was one of the worst pitchers in the league. Mike would come out onto the field with a hunted look in his eyes and his shoulders all bunched up around his ears, presumably in response to the fans—of the Tigers and Garages alike—snickering at him. Landry’s played a lot of games, but he doesn’t remember any fans who’d been so vitriolic towards their own pitcher. Even Lone Star Lars had been universally adored.

Maybe, Landry thinks as he watches Mike appear out of the gloom, it was because Mike was just so gods-damn bad in comparison to the Seattle Garages’ star pitcher.

“He’s here for Jaylen, isn’t he,” Tyreek says.

“I don’t see who else he’d be here for.”

They’re leaning on their bat; Landry offers his arm, but Tyreek bats it away. Landry huffs. Tyreek pulls a face.

“But—why Mike Townsend, though,” Tyreek says. “Like. Of all people.”

“You didn’t even _play_ him,” Landry says.

“Yeah, but come on, it’s _Mike Townsend_.” Which—fair enough. As far as outsized legacies were concerned, Mike Townsend had made a name for himself, and not exactly in a positive way. “He’s making the effort, though.”

Landry sighs. “Don’t know if I agree with the principles of the thing, but you have to respect the hustle.”

Mike Townsend has a guitar case slung over his shoulder; one of his hands is clenched, white-knuckled, around the strap, and his shoulders are bunched up around his ears. He seems a little too real for this place, or maybe not real enough, like he exists in two dimensions, or maybe four—and unlike everything else in this half-shadowed place, it’s as if he’s been lit by a spotlight: too bright, too colorful.

The expression on his face is new. He doesn’t look hunted, anymore, just—determined. Scared, but determined.

“Mike,” Jaylen says, voice almost desperate, and then the two of them are hugging, tight. They break apart after a moment, and Jaylen squints at Mike with something approaching recognition. “You’re not dead, are you? The—the Book. It opened, I—”

“Um. Not yet,” Mike says. “But there’s kind of a lot going on—oh. Hi.”

“Mike,” Tyreek says, perfectly neutral.

“Mike,” Landry says, probably too chipper. “Long time no see.”

“Landry Violence,” Mike says. “And—”

“Tyreek,” Tyreek says. “Olive.”

“Right. I—sorry, I don’t talk to the Firefighters much.”

Tyreek waves it off. “It’s okay, I get that a lot. You’re here for Jaylen, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Mike visibly hesitates. “You’re not gonna—stop me, right? Because there’s this—I mean. You know the Garages, all— _kill the gods, we mean all the gods_ , that kind of stuff? And there’s the peanut—I don’t know how much news you get down here—”

_Peanut?_ Landry mouths at Tyreek. He’d figured the whole blasphemy nonsense would be over by now, but apparently not.

Tyreek gives him a capital-L Look that says _You missed a whole fucking lot by not hanging out with other people_ , which. Also fair. “I know about the peanut, Mike,” Tyreek says. “What does it have to do with any of this?”

“The idol board,” Mike says. “The nut made it, or at least wants us to use it, so like. If we use it—the blessing—to bring a player back from the dead, that’s like—kinda screwing with stuff, right? I’ll admit I’m not a hundred percent on the logic, haha, but… they needed someone to get Jaylen back. And—and.” Mike turns back to Jaylen, gripping the strap of his guitar case with both hands now. “I had to,” he says. “You’re—You used to stick up for me, even though you were so much better—”

“And we’d get daiquiris,” Jaylen says, and it’s the most real thing she’s said since Landry found her here. One of her hands clutches at Mike’s Garages jersey, almost reverent, almost like she wants to take it and put it on. “And joke about. About. Something.”

“Swapping stars,” Mike says, gently. “Because you said—”

“I don’t want them,” Jaylen says, and nods, a little too fast. “Right. Right. That.”

“It’s not too late to turn back,” Landry says. Mike isn’t the first Orpheus Landry’s ever met. Some got close. Some never even got into Hades proper, just lingered outside its gates, singing songs of woe and regret. This isn’t Hades, though, and Mike is no loverboy pining away for some lost love, but in some ways it’s similar enough to make Landry uncomfortable.

Tyreek too, it seems; they shift their weight from one foot to the other, seeming uncomfortable. “There’s going to be consequences,” they say, careful. “You don’t know the damage—”

“I know,” Mike says. Landry catches Tyreek’s frown out of the corner of his eye. “I know.”

“How could you know?” Landry snaps. Tyreek shoots him another look. “What right have you, thinking you are some kind of authority on who stays dead?”

“You’re not an authority either,” Mike says, his jaw set. “This isn’t Hades. We’re taking her back.” He stares at Landry, as if in challenge; Landry stares back, wondering whether Mike Townsend is stupid enough to pick a fight with him.

Tyreek elbows him. Landry can feel the fight deflate out of him, like a punctured tire. Mike nods to himself, and then nods again, and then turns back to Jaylen, who is still staring at him with a look of confusion, like she’s not quite sure how he’s here. For what it’s worth, Landry’s not quite sure either.

“If he wants to make a choice he’ll regret later,” Tyreek says, their voice tired, “then let him make it.”

“You think he’s going to regret it?”

Tyreek shrugs one shoulder. “Did Orpheus regret it?”

“Yeah. But then again, it didn’t work for Orpheus.”

“And who says it’s going to work for Mike Townsend?”

* * *

Mike Townsend leads Jaylen into the dark.

“I hope it works,” Landry says, long after they’re gone. “For their sakes, at least.”

“Yeah,” Tyreek says. “But.”

“But,” Landry agrees.

For a moment he lets himself wonder who would come for him, if he died—it shouldn’t be any of the stripes, because they knew better than to look back. Maybe someone else. Maybe someone who said his name like Townsend had said it: a little awed, a little starstruck. For a moment he lets himself wonder whether he would go as easy as Jaylen had gone; whether he would play the part of Eurydice without complaining.

It would depend on who was leading him into the dark, he thinks; he thinks he would go easy for Tyreek Olive, if they thought it was necessary, but he’s not so sure about anyone else—because, aside from the stripes and people who were already dead, he didn’t see who could be looking for _him_ and not the reputation he had left behind.

He doesn’t like the idea of being hauled, kicking and screaming, into the sunlight, just because someone expected him to be what everyone said he was.

“Do you ever wonder what happened to our jackets?”

“Our jackets?” Tyreek looks taken aback. “What about them?”

“What happened to them,” Landry repeats, although he’s really thinking about what Tyreek had said: _The fuck did_ I _leave behind, huh? A fucking jacket?_ Would someone have ventured into the dark for Tyreek Olive? He knows the answer without having to ask. “I’m about… seventy five percent certain mine got destroyed, so I guess I was just wondering.”

Tyreek frowns. “It was warm,” they say slowly. “California. Los Angeles.”

“Los Angeli, now,” Landry says.

“That’s still so weird.” They wave a hand, dismissing the thought. “We were going to California, so I didn’t have it. Didn’t bring it with me on the road trip. I left it hanging in my locker, I think?”

“I’m sure they’d have done something with it by now.”

“Actually, last I heard—” Tyreek breaks off, eyes wide.

“What is it?”

The space beneath them seizes.

Tyreek stumbles. Landry grabs their elbow and holds tight as everything around them seems to undulate, compress. Other people come into view: Caligula Lotus. Randall Marijuana. Forrest Bookbaby. Garages in tattered uniforms, missing shoes; Shoe Thieves with extra pairs of cleats thrown over their shoulders.

There are so many people here: certainly more people than Landry had consciously registered as Tyreek had recounted the passage of the dead, approaching from all sides, all angles. He and Tyreek are at the center of it all—lights in the dark. Their strange, cavernous eternity feels suddenly cramped—all of the dead, packed in like sardines in the stomach of a strange, unknowable beast. Unlike Asphodel, though, where cobweb-flimsy spirits swarmed in droves, these people are just as real and solid as Landry himself.

And unlike the shades of Asphodel, these dead talk, gossip, trade whispers, as they find each other and hold on. He can hear his own name, repeated over and over: _Landry Violence. Landry Violence. Landry Violence._ The sound of it from other people’s mouths grates like sandpaper against his skin.

There’s something here that wasn’t here before, beyond the people bunching up around them en masse. A presence, heavy and weighty: something _more,_ something too big, outside understanding.

Landry looks up out of pure instinct. Above them is still nothing but inky blackness, but he could’ve sworn he felt something pressing him down, a weight on his shoulders. The chatter turns panicked, nervous—fear seeping in, incomprehension, uncertainty why everything had just changed when it had stayed the same for so long. Landry isn’t afraid of whatever this new thing is. It hasn’t given him any reason to be. But he doesn’t like the feeling of being herded, fenced in with a flock. Their panic sours the air. Landry wants to fight or run or—

“Everyone stay calm,” Tyreek says, and their voice carries, resonant; the panicked noise subsides into panicked silence. “Stick with your team, count heads, make sure everyone’s here.”

Landry makes a questioning noise.

“Emergency services trick,” Tyreek explains, voice pitched low. “Give people something to do, with clear orders, to keep them distracted.”

“Well,” Landry says, and forces himself to take a slow, deep breath, to not focus on the people still murmuring his name. “Tigers, here.”

Tyreek cracks a brief smile. “Good,” they say, and start calling out the names of other teams—taking roll. There are some teams that have larger groups than others, and no Wild Wings. “Fifty-seven,” Tyreek says, when they’re done. “One missing.”

“Jaylen Hotdogfingers.”

“Yeah.”

It’s only because Landry is still looking up that he notices it: a flash of blue light, and names in a list, all with zeroes next to them, like some kind of scoreboard. A line underneath the fourteenth name, like a roster list showing who made the cut. “Tyreek,” Landry says.

“I’m seeing it,” they say. “That’s everyone who’s been incinerated.”

There are fifty-seven names on the list.

“Where’s Jaylen?” one of the Garages says. Landry recognizes her, faintly: Tiana Cash. “Shouldn’t Jaylen be here?”

**one name is missing,** the something says, **from the hall, from the trench.** A long, weighty pause. **we wait.**

* * *

It takes a long time for Tyreek to explain. By the time they’re done the roster list has disappeared.

Landry chips in when necessary, but not frequently—he’s not as eloquent as Tyreek, in front of a crowd like this; usually he’s the one to stir them into a frenzy, so he keeps his statements short, clipped. Everybody is at least familiar enough with Tyreek to kind of trust them, aided by the way Tyreek calmly explains their thought process. There are a few disgruntled mutters and a couple dirty looks thrown Caligula’s way, especially from the Garages, but everyone seems to buy into the idea that the two of them were trying to figure out exactly what was different about Jaylen, and would have explained in time. Tyreek even goes into the hit-by-pitches, although they don’t mention the part where they laid on Landry, and Landry doesn’t bring it up: some things are better left unspoken.

“Does anyone have any questions?” Tyreek says.

There are a couple of raised hands. As Tyreek starts to answer questions, Landry retreats—Tyreek can find him after—and gingerly threads his way through the crowd, ignoring the stares of the players he passes. Randall Marijuana’s words ring in his ears: _total legend._

Landry had never wanted to be a legend. That—that kind of reputation should have been left for people like Tyreek, who deserved it, people who did good and were kind and didn’t risk people’s lives by poor pitch framing. People who were scared but did their jobs anyway, who greeted each incinerated player as they arrived, shivering and afraid, and said things like _It_ _’s okay_ and _We_ _’ll make sure you get to your team_ and asked people if they had questions and stuck around to answer.

People who took the hit even if they didn’t have to, and then did it again, and again, and again.

* * *

He walks for a long time, and then turns around, expecting to see nothing but empty space and darkness.

He frowns.

He could still generously be considered on the fringes of the assembled dead players. He can hear Tyreek’s voice—if not the words then the cadence of it, calm and strong, authoritative without being dictatorial. A couple people look over their shoulders at him curiously; Landry resists the urge to pull faces at them, or shout at them to pay attention to Tyreek.

He tries again, this time reaching out for those cold, empty pockets of nothing, where he’d been the only thing around for as far as he could tell. When he looks over his shoulder, though, he’s still in the same place he was, although the people that had been paying attention to him have turned away.

The crowd disperses, slowly. Landry watches from as far away as he can get; a couple people manifest bats and blaseballs and start a casual game of pick-up. Tyreek approaches, after a bit.

“Trying to escape, Violence?” Tyreek says, tone light. “Abandoning me to the angry mob?”

Landry scowls. “Maybe,” he mutters. “I don’t like them all looking at me.” 

“I know,” Tyreek says, positioning themself at Landry’s side. “You’re fine, I don’t mind. At least they seem to have taken it well.”

“Are you going to play with them?”

“No.” Tyreek sits down, legs sprawling out in front of them, leaning back on their hands. “I’m good.”

Landry looks down at them, sitting and unmovable, and nods to himself. “Good,” he says, trying to sound decisive about it, and sits down next to his friend.

They watch as the pick-up game slowly transforms into actual blaseball: players arranged in an infield, outfield, pitchers swapping in and out, uniforms mixing as different teams unite, all their kits turning shades of blue and gray, the crack of the bat and the shout of _strike!_ The first base hit is met with a cheer from the onlookers. It’s not nearly as pretty as Tyreek’s home runs, and Tyreek laughs when Landry tells them so. The presence hasn’t gone away; it rests, heavy and claustrophobic, somewhere above them. Landry is pretty sure he could live with the feeling of being swallowed if he wasn’t watching half of the fifty-five other dead people look back at him with that terrifying awe.

“Why did you let Mike Townsend go?” Landry says.

“We’re dead, Landry,” Tyreek says. “We’ve been dead for a long time. And you know the Garages. When they say they’re going to stick it to the man—”

“They always follow through,” Landry says, and sighs. “So. If nobody alive could convince them to back down—”

“Then how could we?” Tyreek finishes. “Hopefully they’ll realize it was a mistake, and—fix it. Somehow.”

“Hopefully,” Landry says, and does not say anything about how it was never so simple; how raising the dead had never gone well for anyone; how consequences could never be escaped so easily. How there was always a price, whether Orpheus regretted it or not.

“Hopefully,” Tyreek echoes, dubious, and Landry knows they’ve picked up on the things neither of them are saying—but they’ve both made their choices, and now there’s nothing either of them can do but wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the charities supported by BlaseballCares!


End file.
